


The Dark in You

by Minxchester (ComeAlongPond14)



Series: Northern Light [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Everyone Is Gay, First Love, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Foreshadowing, Jim Is Good, Jim isn't evil, M/M, Multi, Origin Story, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 11:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13717155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/Minxchester
Summary: "'You’re highly unique. One of a kind, I would estimate.'”Title from "Grim Ranger" by Lungs and Limbs.





	The Dark in You

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first timestamp for this series, set....nine-ish years before the events of Like the Northern Light. This installment reflects how Sherlock met his past love, Jim, then lost him....and then how he met his future husband. First husband, that is.
> 
> Beta'ed again by the AMAZING mariaWASD.

_ Jim was a drug, and Sherlock was never coming down from this high. _

When they had first met, Sherlock had been having what he considered a “good” day; the dope made him happy, and far more willing to endure social interaction.

He didn’t know where Jim had come from, or if he had even been legitimately invited to whatever God-awful event Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock attend for appearances’ sake; all he knew was that one minute he was enduring it all and  _ bored _ , and the next....well, he was not bored at all.

James Moriarty walked into his life with a fuck-me smirk and a sweet Irish lilt that had Sherlock dropping to his knees in the bathroom of some London gallery, just to hear the man whisper filth down at him as he sucked him off.

That would have been the end of it, in Sherlock’s mind--he was a junkie, always looking for the next thing to break him out of his stupor, and most people didn’t pursue follow-ups from a man who was that easy, that fast, and that high--but Jim was not like other people.

Sherlock had found the business card in his shirt pocket the next day, though he had no idea how Jim had slipped it in there. 

_ James Moriarty -- Consultant _

“Consultant,” he muttered, turning it over and only finding a mobile phone number. “What sort of consultant? In what field?”

Still, he had texted-- _ shameless junkie whore _ , he knew that’s all he was, but Sherlock wasn’t concerned enough not to do it--just to see if he would get anything out of it. And hell, had he ever. 

Jim....was a whirlwind. They’d texted, and then sexted--God, even just from naughty words over text, the orgasms had been otherworldly. And then they had met for coffee, and then dinner--Angelo was beside himself after Sherlock had been there almost tri-weekly for months, eating alone--and then he brought Jim home with him.

The man had moved in with him three months after they had first hooked up. Jim consumed his universe, a supernova in his own right, exploding all of Sherlock’s stars and shifting his world on its axis. He had condemned the doping, though, and Sherlock had thrown it down the toilet, preferring the way that Jim touched him, kissed him, made him climax, to anything even remotely drug-related.

There had never been a high that came close to finding a lover who seemed to be his equal.

For innumerable months of pure bliss, damn good sex, and the best mental stimulation he had had in his entire life....Sherlock was happy.

_ Jim was his drug, but you always had to come down from the high. _

_ * * * _

“Dublin?....why Dublin?”

Jim shrugged, not looking up from the apple that he was slowly peeling. He always did it in one long stripe of skin, then sliced the fruit itself onto a plate for eating. Somehow, he never failed to get the whole thing in one long, spiralling curl. Sherlock watched the red shine of the skin as it looped over the gleaming steel of the knife, then off into the air.

“It’s where the business is based,” Jim replied steadily. “The company is young, but they’re growing rapidly. And they offered me a leadership position. One that would be easy to continue climbing from.”

Sherlock licked his lips, watched the other man’s back. Jim’s shoulders were loose and relaxed, but there was the faintest tremor in the lines of his arms; he wasn’t entirely unfeeling.

“So you would...move to Ireland, to take this job.”

Jim nodded, turning just enough to drop the long strip of apple peel into the trash can before he set about cutting his apple. “I would have to, yes.”

Sherlock didn’t speak again, waiting until Jim turned to come back to the armchairs with his snack. He merely watched his lover, lifting his cup to his lips and sipping his tea silently. Jim met his gaze steadily, and as always with them, it felt as if more words were exchanged without a sound than could ever be conveyed verbally.

“You could come with me,” Jim said finally, setting aside his little plate with half the slices eaten. “There would certainly be things to occupy your attention in Dublin.”

Sherlock frowned. “You....already accepted?”

Jim shook his head. “I told them I would give my answer by the weekend. I obviously wanted to discuss it with you, first.” He tapped one fingertip on the arm of his chair, dark eyes intent on his boyfriend’s face. “I think it would be good for us. Variety, more income...you might even find something you like doing. Something that pays.”

Sherlock’s lip curled derisively. “Passion isn’t about money. But,” he added, looking away. “I suppose it’s always possible.” He frowned again, putting his tea aside. “If I didn’t go along, but you still went...”

The unfinished thought hung in the air between them, and finally Jim sighed. “I’d be inclined to continue this, over the distance, but...really, Sherlock, why? This could be a career opportunity. And there’s no reason you’re bound to London. This could be an excellent thing for both of us--individually, and as a couple.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I like it here. This city runs in my blood.”

That made Jim smirk. “You weren’t born here, love. You can make any city your domain.” He stood, closing the few feet between their chairs and kneeling between Sherlock’s spread knees, resting his forever-cool palms high on Sherlock’s inner thighs. Even in a lower position, there was something primal and commanding in the man that Sherlock would be forever drawn to. He was captivated by those endless, dark eyes.

“I think the fact that we’re discussing it this much suggests the outcome,” Jim murmured, and there was neither reproach nor regret in his tone. “I want to accept this job, Sherlock, and while I would very much like to bring you with me...I think, most likely, we may be better-suited to seeing where we are, down the line. If we were to reunite later, then...that’s that.”

Reality was a cruel bitch sometimes, and Sherlock half wanted to grab his teacup and shatter it, to throw a tantrum and to reject the cold practicality of Jim’s outlook. With all his being, he hated that Jim was unbearably right in this.

“I’ve never been able to see myself having a future with someone before,” he remarked, his tone a little stiff with repressed emotions. “But I think I can agree to that...to your suggestion.” Sherlock hesitated, then sighed, dropping his hands to grip Jim’s. “If you come back, will you--”

“I’ll call you,” Jim promised, and that infuriating little smirk of his was back in place. That look had been enough to draw Sherlock to his knees the night that they’d met, and it was just as intoxicating, now. “And I’ll send you my contact information there. You might call, too, sweetheart.” He leaned forward on his knees, and Sherlock moved to meet the unspoken invitation, kissing Jim like it was any other Tuesday evening--and a goodbye, both at once.

Sex with Jim was like being worshipped, every inch of his body praised and stimulated and brought to life with a fire that could not be quenched, and Sherlock found himself worked to exhaustion every single time.

* * *

They weren’t sentimental creatures. Jim didn’t tell him when he took the job, but he quietly began to pack his things, and gradually Sherlock watched their home turn back into his. Jim had an old friend, a military fellow, who arrived one morning before Sherlock woke up, taking everything that Jim either wasn’t taking to Dublin, or that needed to be shipped to him. When Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, the flat was his own, and Jim stood by the door in his travel clothes, coat over his arm and dark eyes unusually soft.

“I’ll call,” Sherlock promised, but they both knew that he didn’t make phone calls. 

Jim walked back to his side, using his free hand to cradle Sherlock’s face in his palm as he leaned in, kissing the younger man’s lips lightly. “Promise me you’ll behave,” he murmured, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what the other man meant. “I mean it, Sherlock, don’t make me send your big brother after you.”

Sherlock snorted, but he had to admit, the lingering concern for his well-being was sweet. “I won’t relapse,” he confirmed, sighing. “Enjoy your flight.”

One last little kiss, as ghost-like as the man himself, and Jim Moriarty slipped back out of his life as quietly and seamlessly as he had entered it.

Time moved on its own, a strange and pointless social construct that Sherlock found inane and dull, but still it flowed forward, taking the world on ahead around him regardless of how Sherlock perceived it. He and Jim emailed, and Sherlock was pleased to hear that Jim was doing well--the job was exactly right for him, and he was glad to be back in his own country again. The emails grew less frequent, less intimate, and eventually tapered off.

* * *

“Sherlock. You look....better.”

He glanced at his brother as they joined the assembly at some blasted fundraiser or other, but Sherlock refrained from any kind of sarcastic retort. Sometimes, sincerity startled Mycroft even more. “I suppose I am. Doing better.”

Mycroft smiled faintly, sipping his brandy and watching the other attendees mingling quietly. “I’m glad to hear it. And thank you, for coming tonight. It means a great deal to me when you’re...civil.”

Sherlock snorted. “Well, you did say there was free food.”

A shadow crossed theirs, and Sherlock stilled, ready to exchange the minimum expected mindless small talk before excusing himself and abandoning Mycroft to his bland socialising. These people were here to show off the money that they could afford to give to charity, and to mingle and earn favours with important people like Mycroft. Sherlock’s identity might obligate him, but he was of no social value to anyone here, as far as networking was concerned.

“Mr. Holmes, a pleasure to see you again. Under much...pleasanter circumstances. Such a lovely event.”

Mycroft sounded strained, which was unusual for him--ever the politician, he didn’t normally let his negative feelings toward anyone show. “Mr. Magnussen. Yes, quite...lovely to see you again.” There was a distinctive little pause, and Sherlock didn’t need to refocus from his pointed little  _ I’m not here _ look-around in order to know that their companion was looking at him now, likely waiting for some kind of introduction. Again, Mycroft sounded tense, as if this was the last connection that he wished to make.

“And, may I introduce to you my younger brother, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this...is Charles Magnussen, the...the newspaper mogul.”

Sherlock let his gaze flicker back, taking in the other man in one sweep--and then he stopped, his eyes rising back to the stranger’s face. He held Magnussen’s gaze as the man looked back at him impassively, the strangest little half-smile on his thin lips, and for the first time since he had met Jim, Sherlock felt as if his center of gravity had been yanked back out of the stratosphere and onto solid ground, the world forcing him to attend to his present surroundings.

He could not read a single thing about this man, this...Charles Magnussen.

“A very great pleasure to meet you finally, Sherlock Holmes.” Magnussen was offering his hand, and Sherlock blinked, confused, before remembering himself--social niceties, God, how boring--and accepting the shake. Magnussen’s hand was cold, and oddly damp, but Sherlock did not cringe from it. “Your elder brother has been rather reserved about you, but...I’ve done my own research. You’re...quite the fascinating fellow.”

Sherlock frowned, dropping his hand back to his side. “No more so than any of the other diverse and interesting persons in this room, I imagine. I’m certainly less influential. Just fortunate in my familial connections."

He glanced toward his brother, and Sherlock’s chest tightened as he found Mycroft gazing back at him in a way that Sherlock had never seen his brother look at him before. As if he were memorising Sherlock in that moment; as if he was somehow losing him, and watching it happen. There was a darkness in his gaze that was alien to Sherlock, not because he didn’t recognise it, but because such a thing did not belong on his older brother’s face.

It was grief, of all things, grief as if for a loss.

“Oh, on the contrary.” He looked back at Magnussen when the older man spoke, finding him still smiling idly at him. “Your skills of observation and deduction are...quite miraculous. You’re highly unique. One of a kind, I would estimate.”

“Those are descriptions for artisan crafts and collector’s editions,” Sherlock replied softly, continuing to eye the man as if he could somehow divine more information about him. Sherlock had never met a person who gave him nothing, not by their face or their clothes or the way that they spoke. It was unsettling, and he wanted it to change. People were never indecipherable, and this man should have been no exception. “No human is that singular in their traits, even if they happen to be...different.”

Magnussen tilted his head, examining Sherlock as if he was precisely one of the rare collectibles that he had just referenced. “‘Different,’ Mr. Holmes...is that how you label yourself? I think there are far better adjectives for such a one as yourself. Extraordinary, perhaps, or astonishing.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, and the older man’s eyes cut to him; as his face turned, Sherlock noticed just how colorless his irises appeared to be. His eyes were cold and empty, like those of a deep-sea predator that did not have to rely on its vision; sight was merely a sensory bonus in its hunting pursuits. An additional source of information, feeding the mind and fueling the hunger.

“Yes, well,” Magnussen went on, as if Mycroft’s interruption had broken some little spell. “Again; a truly great pleasure to finally make your acquaintance in person, Mr. Holmes.”

He reached out once more, and although Sherlock didn’t want to touch the man again with any part of himself, he reluctantly obliged. But when his fingers slid into Magnussen’s, the older man startled him by gripping his hand too tightly, bowing forward slightly and angling their linked hands until Sherlock’s knuckles were upturned. Magnussen leaned down, brushing a faint kiss over his fingers, before he released him, straightening up with that same peculiar smile in place on his mouth.

“Until next time,” he murmured before nodding at Mycroft and turning to move back into the small crowd.

Sherlock was entirely unsure of what to say. After a long moment he looked toward his brother, and Mycroft seemed to shake himself off under the weight of Sherlock’s gaze. He reached out, giving his younger sibling’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Never mind,” the older man said quietly, though there was an undercurrent in his voice that Sherlock could not have defined. “Come along, Sherlock.”

He wanted to press his brother for more answers, to know just why Mycroft looked as if he were legitimately afraid of the man they had just spoken to. What threat could a--what had Mycroft said Magnussen was?--a newspaper mogul pose to someone in Mycroft’s position?

But Sherlock didn’t push, for now. When his brother turned away to respond to the next individual who came to greet them, Sherlock followed. But he couldn’t help feeling as if he were suddenly a fish swimming through an enormous aquarium, safe only as long as the hunger of the predator was sated.


End file.
